


gonna dress you up in my love (all over, all over)

by ignited



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Beer, Breakfast, Clothing Kink, Dick Pics, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hoodies, M/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Texting, Underwear Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 08:36:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2725796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignited/pseuds/ignited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recovery means a new wardrobe.</p><p>Or, laundry mishaps, borrowed hoodies, and dick pics. Steve thinks Bucky's gonna be okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gonna dress you up in my love (all over, all over)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheisraging](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheisraging/gifts).



> A very belated birthday fic for [sheisraging](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sheisraging/pseuds/sheisraging), as a tribute to our mutual love for Bucky in comfy clothes. Many thanks to both [sublime_jumbles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sublime_jumbles) and [fourfreedoms](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fourfreedoms) for the audiencing and betas! Title from Madonna's "Dress You Up."

When it comes to Bucky’s wardrobe, he has two different modes. There’s the one that harks back to the old days—no matter how down on their luck they were, without a nickel to spare, he still had a good suit, maybe even two. Shined his shoes, combed his hair, looked stylish, with a cocky tug at his mouth. The gangster pictures became popular; Bucky got a pinstripe suit—with what money, Steve didn’t ask. Point is, sometimes Bucky likes to look presentable. Within a few months of this new normal, he’s out shopping with Steve, Sam, and occasionally Natasha. He’s not so out of tune with the day and age as Steve thinks, wrongly, at first. In the decades he’d been conscious, he had to carry out missions, and sometimes even blend in.

So Bucky knows how to rile him up, Steve thinks, when he settles on tight jeans, Henleys and _scarves_ , of all things.

Steve hears Sam muttering _hipster_ under his breath, words like “organic” and “vegan,” though judging by the way Bucky still loves diner food and cheap black coffee, Steve thinks he’s far from being a hipster.

Bucky will throw on some clothes when they go out—and he does go out, to keep his mind off things, on the good days—to attend Sam’s group, to be a welcome, if silent presence at Steve’s volunteering or charities.

Bucky is _trying_ , that’s the thing, and Steve couldn’t be prouder.

He’ll knock a jean-clad knee at Steve when they’re in a taxi, grumble about wanting his own set of wheels.

Steve lets Bucky sling an arm around his shoulders. “So what kinda car you wanna get, Buck?”

“Somethin’ solid. Dependable,” Bucky says, looking out the window, the blur of trees and D.C. buildings passing by. His hair curls at the nape of his neck as he turns to look at Steve. His t-shirt is white and semi-see through, and his jean jacket makes him look achingly young. “Hey, how about a motorcycle?”

Steve chuckles as his answer and gets a shove against his ribs. He groans in mock pain. “Sure, sure.”

The taxi pulls up and Bucky does a little one, two, adjustment shake of his clothes when they pay and get out on the sidewalk. He straightens his jacket, combs his longish hair with his fingers, and he asks, “Good?”

Steve shrugs. “Shame about your face.”

Bucky stares at him, a little taken aback. “What?”

“Mug like yours makes it hard to get anywhere, huh?” Steve says, already taking a quick step out of range of Bucky’s left arm. But he’s not quick enough; Bucky thwaps him, gentle, before he slides a hand in Steve’s back pocket, the flesh hand.

He smells good when he leans in, saying, “Next time, I use the metal one right on your ass. And I’ll make sure it’s good and freezin’.”

 

* * *

 

Then there’s the other mode for Bucky’s wardrobe choices, and that’s the one Steve loves the most.

It’s about control, and being _comfortable_ , in charge of his own body and his own decisions.

Steve doesn’t push; he brings some extra clothes when they find Bucky, simple ones. Leaves out some of his old spare shirts, pants, jeans, careworn and broken in. Offers to take him shopping, or just order them online if Bucky doesn’t want to go out. They settle on plain t-shirts, sweatpants, and hoodies at first, taking it slow. And then, as Bucky comes into himself—and that old sense of fashion comes back—he opts for flashier things, a return to his old style.

But at home, for the most part, he’s all about being comfortable, and that comfort is in wearing Steve’s clothes.

Bucky is built sturdy, had always been sturdier than Steve, but his waist is wider, and his ass is, too, cutting a snug figure in Steve’s boxers. Steve’s shirts are loose up top and snug in the middle on Bucky, faded SHIELD logos and tiny holes an inch or two different on Bucky’s torso. Hoodies envelop him, soft, loose, or tight, depending on whichever one he pulls on.

He doesn’t wear socks in the apartment, not when Steve’s his own personal furnace, he says, shoving cold feet under Steve’s ass and thighs when they’re sitting together on the couch watching TV.

And his hair, his hair is always messy and loosely tied up, a bun that inevitably becomes a sloppy ponytail over the course of the day.

It’s not like Bucky is a mess about these things. He has his own clothes, but he’s let Steve know that he just likes the ease of these, and how they’re _Steve’s_ for the most part.

 

* * *

 

“Look, Barnes, you gonna be under my roof for the weekend, you gotta follow the rules. Clothing ain’t optional.” Sam holds up a hand to silence Steve, quickly pointing to Bucky’s bare back, the corded muscle that flexes as he inspects the fridge. “I don’t care what you two are up to, I _certainly_ don’t care if Steve’s ratty shirts are chafing your _delicate_ super soldier skin, you can’t walk around my place naked.”

Steve balances his pencil between his fingertips, watching the lead rub a gray dot into his thumb. “Sam…”

Sam puts down his book. “Hey! Barnes!”

They crane their heads to peer over the kitchen counter, Steve barely getting a foot up off his seat when Sam smacks him, mouthing, “This is your fault.”

Meanwhile, Bucky is finishing the last of the orange juice, messily wiping his chin. He comes around, and, well, he’s not naked, for one thing.

This time he’s wearing a pair of tight boxer briefs with the Cap shield on the front, the briefs low and snug on his hips.

Sam groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I don’t need to see that.”

“He does,” Bucky says, gesturing with the now empty bottle to Steve. “You like this, don’t you?”

Steve plucks feebly at his collar, trying to avoid staring at anything below the belt. “This isn’t the time or place, Buck.”

Sam peeks through the crack of his fingers. “Say something.”

“Nice briefs?” Steve volunteers.

Bucky shrugs, turning around and throwing out the bottle in the recyclables. The briefs aren’t doing a good job of covering the bottoms of his ass cheeks, either.

 

* * *

 

If Steve doesn’t join Bucky on shopping trips, it’s usually because Steve is too busy. Between tracking down the remains of HYDRA and dealing with the Avengers, it has them split up more often than Steve cares for, but Bucky tells him to do it; it gives him focus besides that nagging feeling at the back of his mind, of wanting to destroy everything that HYDRA _is_. And he’d gone half mad trying to do it when he and Sam had looked for Bucky; he’d wanted to _hurt_ —

If Steve doesn’t tag along, then Bucky texts him. It’s good. It keeps him centered.

It’s a mini-catalog for both their reference: photos of Bucky posing in new clothes, _you like this one?_ , pulling faces, like it comes natural—like if texting and selfies existed back when they were young, they’d have done it. And isn’t that a kicker, _back when they were young_ , when that’s really a few years before, at least _consciously_.

Getting lost in his thoughts is easy for Steve to do when he’s sitting at one of these new SHIELD planning meetings, trying in vain to listen about the latest protocol, or what Coulson and his team are up to, and then he gets that quick, but welcomed vibration on his phone, an alert.

He thumbs the phone open and quickly checks under the table, because sure enough, it’s private: a dick pic.

 _Technology is swell_ , Bucky texts as a caption.

Steve sinks down in his seat. _Not again._

Bucky texts him three more dick pics in a row. Steve’s at a loss for a reply, trying not to react too obviously—the room is clear of people who’d make a comment about his texts, but it’s not _professional_ anyway—

The phone vibrates again. The next picture is Bucky’s dick with the cybernetic hand wrapped around it, a sharp contrast of gleaming silver against his erection, sleek metal thumbing the leaking slit.

_having fun Steve?_

_Asshole._

It’s a wonder that Bucky doesn’t just upload the pictures online, but there’s rules for this now, and Bucky says, later, “Even if I have exhibitionist tendencies, I’m not slapping my dick up on the goddamn internet,” and Steve laughs so hard that he almost cries.

 

* * *

 

The next meeting goes a little better.

Bucky’s in the meeting, too, for once they’re not sent in opposite directions—seems with two super soldiers on call, the need for them on the job has them constantly splitting up. He’s not throwing teasing smirks or glances Steve’s way from across the table; the job is important, and he’s a professional.

Even his hair is combed and pulled back in a neat ponytail. He’s stepped up his game for the day.

The meeting goes without incident, and Steve’s able to focus and not space out with Bucky as a distraction. It’s on the tail end that he sends the text.

It’s a _video_ , and it’s _Steve_ this time, sweaty and sloppy, hips stuttering as he jerks off.

Steve quirks an eyebrow and spreads his knees wider apart when Bucky looks up.

It’s worth it to see Bucky turn red for once.

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, it’s one thing to wear the clothes, it’s another to clean them.

Steve is old-fashioned in that respect—they don’t have to use clothes lines anymore, not when they have a washer and dryer in their own apartment. He’s usually taken the initiative and done laundry himself, but Bucky volunteers to do it, with a scowl, “It’s just laundry, I can handle laundry, _Steve_.”

Any other day, Steve thinks he could handle the machine. Just because it’s new technology doesn’t mean Bucky is completely out of his element—for all of the cracks Stark or the others might make about Bucky’s age, he’s been out in the world a great deal more than Steve has. Even if it was on missions, it wasn’t like they left him without the ability to blend in, Steve knows. They had kept him on ice but trained him enough to survive on his own between extractions—to melt into a crowd, to absorb information and culture in each new decade. Missions and barebones living went hand in hand, but he knows how to use these. And if Bucky doesn’t, Steve knows he takes pleasure in looking them up online if he needs to. Because if Bucky’s going to be good at something, he’ll be the best damn person at laundry in the whole organization. He’d always been the top of his class at school, and he’s stubborn as a mule to boot.

He’ll be _perfect_ at it. He’s got the skill and drive, and it’s not like he’s got much to do in the past couple of days to be able to look it up, he tells Steve.

Perfect laundry turns out to be a hell of a lot harder than Bucky thinks, between remembering how much detergent to use, and the dryer acting up, practically _scorching_ everything.

It’s a good thing he’s got a metal arm, ‘cause the flesh one would’ve burned off by now, Steve reasons, sniffing the singed air.

So, fine, Bucky’s not perfect with laundry. He, in fact, sucks at laundry until he gets another shot—which will likely be never, judging by the way all his clothes have ended up a size too small.

Steve’s certainly not complaining at the way Bucky’s shirts hug his biceps, or how his jeans are too clingy on his ass.

(Turns out Bucky won’t complain either, but after a few days, he says he’s going to take Steve out shopping next time—his chest is practically obscene now.)

 

* * *

 

It’s easy, so easy to guess that Steve’s favorite piece of clothing on Bucky might be whatever is strewn on the floor. Watching him spread out under or above Steve with not a stitch on him, or seeing him snug warm and pressed against Steve under the covers.

But when it’s half past eleven at night and they’re out of beer, and Bucky suggests they go out, quick, and throws some clothes on, it makes Steve feel the most fond.

Bucky shoves his worn boots on, looking rumpled and messy, hair and wooly scarf and cap in his eyes. He’ll charm the pants off anyone he meets in the next ten minutes down the snowy night street, bump shoulders with Steve as their cold breaths puff in the winter air.

And he’ll laugh, eyes light and twinkling as Steve pulls on his knitted scarf at the crosswalk, street lamps bathing his face in orange light.

“Don’t pull,” Bucky warns, flicking Steve’s hand away. “You’ll mess it up!”

“I’m tryin’ not to get lost in this blizzard,” Steve answers, grinning at the scant snowflakes. He gestures for them to cross the street. “I’m holdin’ on to you.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want you disappearing in the snow—oh,” Bucky says, almost comes up short at the curb. He snorts under his scarf, and then starts to _giggle_. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

It doesn’t help that Steve’s only staring at him—not angry at the joke, but surprised Bucky seems so gleeful at his humor. “What a pal, Buck, thanks. After _all_ I put up with…”

There’s a balance Steve sometimes worries about, a delicate line he knows he treads carefully on—he doesn’t want to hurt or upset Bucky, _ever_ —but he knows it’s okay for now, they’re okay when the sarcasm doesn’t fly over Bucky’s head, because he’s laughing and nudging Steve like it’s _hilarious_.

“If you can’t laugh…” Bucky breathes out, juggling the brown paper bag of the six pack of beer to his other arm. “Then—”

“It’ll be ‘cause I’m _frozen_ in a snowbank, you _asshole_ ,” Steve grumbles as Bucky laughs even louder.

 

* * *

 

Who is Steve kidding? Unwrapping Bucky after their jaunt outside and snuggling up for warmth—feeling every inch of warm skin and soon to warm metal—has a special place in his heart.

 

_end_

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](http://youneedtostrut.tumblr.com/) \-- check out my [Bucky in comfy clothes tag](http://youneedtostrut.tumblr.com/tagged/bucky%20in%20comfy%20clothes%202kforever)!


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